


odds & ends

by oryx



Category: No Fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-05-12 03:31:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5650960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of WIPs that I'm never going to finish but felt the need to post somewhere. [Kamen Rider Kuuga, Transistor, Castlevania, Crows Zero, Undertale, Mushishi, Kamen Rider OOO]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. kuuga, ichijou/godai

There’s blood in the snow.

He keeps shaking Godai by the shoulders, calling his name again and again, but his eyes refuse to open. Fighting down panic, Kaoru puts two fingers to the curve of Godai’s neck, and while his pulse is strong – _too_ strong, maybe, too intense and erratic for a normal person – his skin is worryingly cold to the touch.

From behind him he can hear the snow-muffled sound of movement.

Red drips from Number Zero’s mouth as he staggers to his feet. He’s grinning broadly, Kaoru sees, like a vicious gash tearing his face apart.

“What?” he laughs. “Is he done already? And we were just getting started, too.”

He takes a step closer and Kaoru scrambles for the gun at his waist, but before he can so much as lift it Number Zero is there, leering down at him, reaching out to wrap a hand around his throat. The grip is like a vice. Almost immediately Kaoru can feel the air growing thin in his lungs, a burning in his chest as he struggles to draw breath.

“She was wrong, it seems,” Number Zero says with a sigh. “Linto are still the same. Nothing but weak-willed, pathetic _prey_. Really, I was hoping for more of a challenge.”

His hand squeezes a little tighter.

Kaoru’s vision is starting to go black around the edges, Number Zero’s bloodied face swimming in and out of focus. He thinks he hears someone say his name, so quiet it’s almost stolen away by the wind, but perhaps it’s just an invention of his oxygen-deprived mind.

“Goodbye,” the monster says, and that is when he wakes up.

 

 

“Are… are you alright, Ichijou-san?”

He comes back to himself with a jolt, realizing that he’s been staring at the same case file for several minutes now, the words blurring together on the page. Sasayama is peering at him worriedly from across the table, and he clears his throat, nodding as he sets the file aside.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Sasayama looks unconvinced. He hasn’t slept much the past few days, and there are dark, bruise-like circles beneath his eyes to show for it. The dream has been recurring more and more often as of late, the details seeming to sharpen each time, the cold and the desperation steadily growing in intensity.

“You know you don’t actually have to be here, right? _Detective_ Ichijou?” Sugita nudges him with his elbow, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “This kind of drudge work is officially below your pay grade. But, then again… I guess this is _you_ we’re talking about.”

Kaoru can feel himself smile faintly in return. He stretches out his back, trying to dispel the ache forming between his shoulderblades, and reaches for yet another unsorted file.

A minute later there is a knock at the door, and Sakurai sticks his head into the room.

“It’s almost eleven,” he says, “and you all are _still_ here?”

“… You realize you’re still here, too? Right, Sakurai-san?” Sasayama says, staring at him incredulously.

“That’s – okay, fine. Forget it. Either way, Captain says to ‘just go home already, damn it’ and leave the rest for tomorrow. You guys seem like you’re really enjoying yourselves, but y’know, you should probably listen to him.”

“Gladly,” Sugita mutters. He hides a yawn behind his hand as he gets to his feet, shrugging on his suit jacket. “Never been so glad to leave this place in my life. See you all bright and early tomorrow for another round, yeah?” He hesitates, then, putting a hand on Kaoru’s shoulder and leaning down to whisper: “Go get some sleep, man. You look like hell.”

“… I will,” Kaoru says, with a tight-lipped smile.

(It’s not really up to him, in the end.)

 

 

There’s someone waiting outside the precinct.

They’re leaning against the wall, and Kaoru can only see their silhouette against the glare of the streetlamp, and immediately his mind jumps to the worst possible option. Someone standing alone outside a police station at eleven in the evening, watching the door, anticipating the next person to exit? His fingers itch for the handle of the gun he’s not carrying.

But then the person turns, and seems to straighten in recognition, waving excitedly in his direction. “Ichijou-san,” they say, jogging up to meet him, and –

_Oh,_ he thinks, taking a sharp breath.

It’s been thirteen months and eleven days.

“Welcome back,” he somehow manages to say, and Godai simply smiles.

 

 

His plane touched down not two hours ago, he says, and with no money left over for a cab he’d walked the entire way from the airport.

“Thought about going to Minori’s first,” he says, “but she’s probably already asleep by now.” He pauses, ‘hmm’ing thoughtfully. “I don’t know why, but I had a feeling you’d still be at work, Ichijou-san.”

“Ah, that’s… We’re switching to a new method of filing, and the entire department’s in a gridlock trying to get it done…” He trails off, the rest of his explanation lying heavy on the back of his tongue. God, what is he saying? None of this matters in the slightest, which is probably why he’s saying it – trying to avoid the thousand questions that have been weighing on his mind for the past year. _Where have you been? What have you been doing all this time? Are you alright, or are you still missing the part of yourself you lost back then?_

“It’s good to see you,” he says instead, holding out his hand awkwardly.

Godai blinks down at it. A moment later and he’s laughing, and the light from the streetlamp is just bright enough that Kaoru can see the dimple in his cheeks, the endearing crease around his eyes, all the little things he’s been forgetting as of late.

“You too,” Godai says, and pushes past the offered handshake to put his arms around him.


	2. transistor, kendrells

“Everything is – ” Grant says, and here his words seem to stutter and skip like a broken recording. His eyes widen as he presses a trembling hand to his throat.

“Everything is gone,” he says finally. He turns toward the window, looking down at their city which is no longer theirs. In the distance the Highrise skyline is all but unrecognizable, its towers rearranged, the sickly whiteness of the Process eating away at the few that remain.

“I’m still here,” Asher says. His voice sounds so very small.

Grant turns back to look him, smiling sadly, and his eyes are all wrong. Flat and empty, without their usual fire.

“Yes,” he says. “And I thank you for that.”


	3. castlevania, alucard & soma!dracula

He expects, upon entering the throne room, to be overwhelmed by the scent of Belmont’s blood.

But oddly enough there are no visible wounds on Julius’s body. Only a few minor bruises here and there. His neck has been snapped, from the looks of it, as neat and clean a death as one could hope for. Alucard kneels down next to him, looking him over with a discerning eye. He is laid out much like a corpse in an open casket might be – eyes peacefully closed, hands folded across his chest as if they’d been positioned there.

“I did not wish to kill him, you know,” a voice says. Alucard glances up to find the throne suddenly occupied. Soma’s expression – though it is not _his_ anymore, Alucard supposes – appears contemplative as he reclines back with a sigh.

“The boy was on good terms with him,” his father continues. “They were friends, of a sort. That must be it, don’t you think? The reason why. I could have easily torn out his heart, or ripped his flesh to shreds… But I could not bring myself to do it, in the end. I tried to make it as painless as I could, and even then there was reluctance. Strange, that the residual feelings of this child could affect me so.”

“… He is strong,” Alucard says, getting to his feet. “And you admire strength, do you not? You should allow him his life back, Father. It would be the honorable thing to do.”

His father laughs, baring his fangs in an eerie smile. It is disconcerting, to see such a smile on Soma’s face. “I never knew you to tell jokes, Adrian. Has all your time spent among humans finally instilled in you a sense of humor?”

“I am entirely serious.” Alucard takes a step towards the throne, hand straying reflexively for the hilt of his sword despite its absence. “Have you forgotten the last time we spoke, Father? I shared Mother’s dying words with you. You seemed to understand their significance. And yet here you are again, continuing on with this tiresome cycle, still dwelling on this pointless hatred for humans.”

For a time, his father does not speak. His face is turned away, cloaked in shadow. And then, slowly, he says:

“How many years did your mother live, Adrian?”

Alucard’s eyes narrow. “Thirty-four,” he says. “You know that as well as I, so why do you ask – ”

“Thirty-four years,” his father echoes. “Your mother was a very perceptive woman. But three decades of life does not show you much. Three decades gives you only a glimpse into the true nature of humanity. To see them for what they really are, one has to observe for centuries.

“I think,” he continues, “that your mother believed in the potential of humankind. The era in which she lived was a troubled one, that I will not deny. She believed that someday, once her species’ plight had lessened, they would prove themselves to be worthy of existing. …But let me tell you something, Adrian. I have watched humans for a very long time. I have seen their average lifespan double. I have seen them progress from toiling in the muck to inhabiting sprawling cities, accomplishing feats along the way that I would deem magic if I did not know better. But one thing has not changed, over these hundreds of years: their inherent nature is still much the same. They wage war with one another over meaningless pedantry. They kill each other over petty disagreements. If you were to tell me that witch burnings no longer occurred, in a sense you would be right. But you would also be wrong, because they do, just in a different manner. A subtler form of intolerance.”

“Even so,” Alucard says softly, “what right do you have to pass judgment on them?”

“…Perhaps none,” his father says, looking suddenly very tired. “But if I do not, then who will? God?” He laughs again, but this time it is a weary sound, his smile thin and bitter on Soma’s lips.


	4. crows zero, tokaji/izaki

It just pisses him off, y’know?

Nobody has any right looking like _that_ in a place like Suzuran – like some kinda fashion model straight off the cover of a magazine, like an actor in one of those big-budget American movies. With his too-tight shirts and that dumbass necklace he’s always wearing and his stupidly perfect hair, just dark enough around the roots to make it look like he doesn’t care. The worst is when he puts on those damn shades, and then you can’t even tell where he’s looking. Could be staring right at you for all you know. Judging you with those fucking _eyes_ of his.

Yuuji’s really looking forward to giving him a shiner or two next time they throw down. Then at least he could feel triumphant when Izaki looks at him, rather than just –

Strange.

Strange is definitely the word for it. A hot, prickly feeling beneath his skin, stomach twisting itself into knots, the kind of feeling that leaves him irritated and itching for a fight.

Luckily, there’s no shortage of those to be found around here.

“Oi, Tokaji,” Serizawa says, not looking at him, as intently focused on his mahjong tiles as he is. “Heard you’ve been beating up on first years.”

“They got in my way,” Yuuji says with a shrug, and though he’s going for nonchalance he ends up sounding defensive. “Bunch of disrespectful little fucks.”

Serizawa makes a noise of agreement. “Can’t argue with that. Heard you really did a number on that one kid, though. Heard he barely even stood a chance. Y’know… If you’re just looking for something to wail on,” and here he peers over his shoulder, fixating Yuuji with one of those cool, flinty stares, “maybe try a punching bag next time.”

A smattering of laughter goes around the table, and Yuuji can feel the back of his neck flush. Izaki is in the seat opposite Serizawa (a sight Yuuji would’ve never expected to see – Izaki Shun and Serizawa Tamao calmly playing mahjong together), and his mouth quirks into a faint, sardonic smile around his cigarette. He lifts his eyes from his tiles for a split second to look at Yuuji and –

There it is again. That feeling. Yuuji’s hand curls into a fist at his side, his teeth clenched hard enough to hurt.


	5. undertale, kill all but mtt neutral end

The librarian’s eyes widen fearfully behind their glasses when he steps inside.

That’s been happening a lot lately, he’s noticed. People looking nervous when he walks into a room. It’s enough to give a guy a complex – or it would, if he didn’t understand full well the way they feel. (What can he say? It’s a living.)

He sidles up to the counter; takes a business card covered in gold glitter from his jacket pocket and slides it across. Unnecessary, of course, but Mettaton had insisted. “You can’t be a proper manager without business cards,” he’d said, tsking, and Sans isn’t about to argue with the bossman.

“H-how can I help you today?” the librarian asks, plastering on a forced smile.

“my employer’s coming here to snowdin for a fan meet’n’greet next week,” Sans says. “y’know, signing t-shirts, posing for pictures, holding a contest for ‘best ice sculpture of his face.’ the usual. he was hoping to use this place. i assume that won’t be a problem?”

They swallow visibly. “No, no,” they say. “No problem at all. We’d be honored to welcome the one and only Mettaton.”

“good to hear. also, sometime before the event you’re gonna need to get rid of all these books.” Sans gestures to the shelves behind him. “and replace them with a few hundred copies of mettaton’s autobiography, _from snails to stardom: the mtt story_.”

The librarian stares at him, seconds ticking past, until finally they laugh nervously and say: “You can’t be serious.”

Sans winces sympathetically. “yeah, i know it’s a bit of a hassle. sorry about that. but all the books here have officially been deemed ‘detrimental to public morale.’ mettaton thinks it’s best if everyone just focuses on what’s most important. which, as i’m sure you know, is him. the order just went through a few days back: all media that isn’t mtt-approved should be destroyed immediately in order to ensure the people’s mental wellbeing.”

He can see the exact moment their disbelief fades into dawning horror.

“… No,” they say, shaking their head, and their claws are white where they’re gripping the countertop. “No, I – I won’t. I won’t do it. _God_ , Sans, can you even hear yourself? These books are all we have left, I _won’t_ , I… I’m sick of this. I’m sick of smiling and pretending things aren’t falling apart – ”

Sans presses a finger to his mouth, then, bone clicking against bone, and the rest of their words seem to taper off into nothing.

“y’know, you seem kinda tired today,” he says. He glances over at the Mettaton-shaped surveillance camera on the wall, and they follow his gaze, all the colour draining from their face. “i know some monsters who start talking nonsense if they don’t get enough rest. isn’t that right?” He receives nothing but tense silence in response, and taps the business card before turning away. “thanks for your cooperation. call that not-entirely-toll-free number if you have any questions.”

He heads for the door.

“Why are you doing this?” they ask, so quiet he almost doesn’t catch it, and he pauses with his hand around the doorknob. “Why are you working for him?”

“hey c’mon, throw me a _bone_ here,” Sans says, and looks over his shoulder to give them a half-hearted wink. “we all gotta pay the bills somehow.”

They look at him steadily, sadly, with tiredness etched into their face. “There’s nothing left to pay, Sans. It’s all gone.”

He continues to smile vacantly as he waves goodbye, and steps outside into snow flecked with glitter.

 

 

There isn’t a square inch of Hotland that hasn’t been remodeled into something garish and ostentatious.

Except, that is, for Doctor Alphys’s lab. Other than a few glamour shots of Mettaton plastered on the walls, the lab remains exactly as it had been the day he’d claimed it as the New Official Unofficial MTT Brand HQ.

“Alphys just _hates_ when I mess up her things,” he’d said last week, looking over the piles of dusty papers and books with a frown. “She’ll want it to be just like she left it when she comes back. Don’t you think?”

“sure,” Sans had said.

It’s been approximately three months and seventeen days since Alphys disappeared.


	6. kuuga x mushishi

_In places where there are no clouds for days on end, do not gaze too long into the seemingly empty sky._  
   
 _What you see may not be sky at all._  
   
  
   
  
   
“Is there anything else you need?”  
   
The old woman smiles, waving a hand as if to dismiss the thought, taking the remedy from him with a nod of thanks. “No, no,” she says. “Just this is plenty. Not much of note happens around these parts, you know, mushi-related or otherwise.” She pauses, contemplative. “Although… there was that odd fellow a few days back.”  
   
“Odd fellow?”  
   
She nods. “He wore Western-looking clothes like you. Very modern. So we all thought he must be a mushi-shi. But he didn’t seem to understand anything we asked of him. Seemed a bit lost and confused in general. Very pleasant, though. And, well… my eyes aren’t quite what they used to be, but… I could’ve sworn he looked just like you, Ginko-san. Like a twin, even. D’you have a twin, by chance?”  
   
“… Not that I’m aware of,” Ginko says, leaning back against the wall and taking a thoughtful drag of his cigarette. Though he supposes it’s not entirely impossible – a sibling out there somewhere – he’s always had the solemn yet strangely peaceful sense of being alone in this world. There is no one on this earth who knows who he was Before. That much he has long since accepted.  
   
“I met him, too,” the woman’s grandson says, pushing the curtain aside and peering into the room. “Granny’s right – he was your spitting image. With normal-coloured hair instead of silver, though. Old Juuzou thought he was you and started calling him Ginko-san and everything.”  
   
“It’s said you die within a day if you meet your doppelganger,” the old woman says, raising an eyebrow in Ginko’s direction. “Best be on your way quick in case that fellow comes back.”  
   
“Thanks for the warning,” Ginko says, and can feel his mouth curve into an amused smile. “Do you remember which way he went when he left town, by any chance? Just so I can be extra careful.”  
   
  
   
  
   
Tracking down his so-called doppelganger is a simple enough matter. Almost everyone he passes along the road remembers seeing him (“strange clothes,” “made some kind of odd gesture with his thumb,” “nice young man; offered to help me carry my wares, even though it was in the opposite direction of wherever he was headed”).  
   
When he does catch up to him, it’s at a crossroads – one path snaking up into the densely forested mountains, the other a low, easy slope into miles of rice paddies and farmland. There’s a man sitting by the trunk of an old tree, staring down at something in his hand from beneath a fringe of dark hair. His clothes are definitely noticeable – unlike anything Ginko has ever seen, not even during his brief trip to Tokyo a few months back.  
   
“Excuse me,” he says. The man looks up, and –  
   
His eyes widen in astonishment.  
   
It really is uncanny, Ginko thinks. He’d assumed the villagers to be exaggerating, but it is, in fact, like staring into a mirror. The same nose, the same mouth, the same mole right by the chin. (The eyes are a bit different, though. This man has both, for one. And while he may not have Ginko’s dark circles, somehow he seems infinitely more tired. The hollow, haunted look of a person who’s seen something they’d rather forget.)  
   
He gets to his feet slowly and leans in close, studying Ginko’s face.  
   
“That’s incredible,” he mutters, a smile of amazement curving the corner of his mouth. “Some people in the town back there seemed to mistake me for someone. I guess I can see why.” He laughs, taking a step back and tilting his head to the side, as if Ginko might look different from that angle. “Seriously, that’s wild.”  
   
Ginko raises an eyebrow. “You don’t seem all that taken aback.”  
   
The man’s smile broadens. “Well, neither do you.”  
   
“… You could say that I’m used to seeing strange things.”  
   
“Really? Same here,” the man says, rummaging around in his pocket for something. After a moment he pulls out what looks like a small square piece of paper and hands it to Ginko. “This is me. Nice to meet you, even if the face thing is a little weird.”  
   
Ginko stares down at the white square in his hand. _Godai Yuusuke_ , it says. _The man who chases his dreams. Jack of all trades. ~~2400~~ 2430 skills and counting! _ Next to the name is a tiny drawing of a person with their thumb raised. He glances up to find the man himself mirroring the gesture.  
   
“A pleasure,” he says, trying not to let his bemusement show on his face. “Sorry, I don’t have a calling card to give you in return. But I’m called Ginko. I’m a mushi-shi.”  
   
“Mushi-shi?” the man – Godai – echoes. He contemplates for a moment, brow furrowing, a frown tugging at his mouth. “So like… an exterminator?”  
   
Ginko can’t help the wry, quiet laugh that slips out. “Not really, no,” he says. “Have you seriously never met a mushi-shi before?”  
   
Godai shakes his head. “I’m, uh,” he says, and rubs at the back of his neck almost sheepishly, “I’m not really from around here. Actually, I’m… starting to get the feeling that I might be farther away from home than I thought I was. We don’t have mushi-shi where I come from. Or…” He gestures towards a small mushi – like a cluster of translucent greenish spores – that’s currently drifting past his shoulder. “Whatever this is.”  
   
“You can see them, then?”  
   
Godai blinks. “Is that weird? Should I not be able to?”  
   
Ginko ‘hmm’s softly to himself. This could easily turn into a long explanation. He shrugs off his pack and leans it against the tree; takes his cigarette case and matches from his pocket. He offers one to Godai, who declines with a gracious smile.  
   
“Those things are what we call mushi,” he says, and takes a drag, letting the heady, herbal taste settle on his tongue. “Only about, say, five percent of the world’s population can see them. Maybe less, even. They are, in a way… life in its purest form. They aren’t animals or plants. They are something simpler, but also more infinitely more complex.”


	7. momotaro commercials, pheasant/crow

The warrior says he has heard of it happening only once before.  
   
A human king in a distant land, distraught over the deaths of his children, who had retreated into grief and rage and darkness only to emerge as something else. Something as tall as the trees, with eyes that glowed like burning coals and flesh as tough as rock.  
   
“Was he able to be saved?” Pheasant asks, a faint spark of hope flaring up deep within him. “Is there a way to turn someone back, once they have changed?”  
   
But the warrior simply looks at him, steady and pitying, before glancing away and resuming the sharpening of his blade.  
   
“We have a long trek ahead of us tomorrow,” he says in lieu of an answer. “You should get some rest.”  
   
  
   
  
   
Pheasant finds himself lost within memories more often these days. When looking out across the open, glittering sea, or across the flat desert lands where the sky stretches for miles, there is little to do but let one’s mind wander back.  
   
He remembers Crow as a fledgling – withdrawn, easily frightened, treated as an outcast by many, who distrusted his jet black colouring. “An ill omen,” some had whispered. “The portent of death.” They thought him to be cursed by the gods.  
   
Pheasant never understood. How could anyone look at those inky black feathers – reflective and gleaming, with the slick sheen of a rainbow to them in the right light – and think them anything but beautiful? He said as much whenever he could, but still the whispered words of others kept Crow timid, wings always tucked tight against his back. He would spread them in front of no one but Pheasant.  
   
(Deep down it pleased Pheasant to know this. To think of Crow’s wings as his own personal secret. Something no one else had ever seen, not truly. To watch them unfurl slowly, each black feather catching the sun, and to feel, for a moment, as if no one existed in the world save the two of them.)  
   
“What is he to you?” Monkey asks from across the campfire. A raised eyebrow and a sly smile – no sympathy there, only curiosity, but Pheasant would not have expected anything else from one of his kind.  
   
“He is – ” Pheasant begins, and then stops just as quick, his voice fading. He had called Crow brother, once upon a time, but that simple word no longer feels right.  
   
“We learned to fly together,” he says finally.  
   
What else is there to say but that?  
   
  
   
  
   
By nature, Avians are physically weak creatures. Their kind have never been fighters. They are craftsmen, weavers, and merchants. Artisans, poets, and architects. Instead of stories of great, ancient conquests, their legends tell only of the gods, the skies, and love.  
   
But harsh circumstances turn people hard. (Or so the humans say.) And as the Ogres began to emerge in greater numbers from their underground caverns, cutting swathes of ruin through the border settlements, the need arose for warriors to keep their people safe.  
   
It was nothing more than coincidence, really, that the two of them were thrust into such roles. They were young and agile and strong. And who better to fight the battles than those with naïve dreams and futures to come home to?


	8. kr ooo, genie au

It’s all that cat bastard’s fault, in the end.  
   
Thinking any further about the details makes him want to punch something, and considering how he’s stuck inside this fucking medal he can’t even do that.  
   
So as far as Ankh is concerned, “it’s that scheming cat’s fault and someday he’s going to pay for it” is all anyone really needs to know about this mess of a situation. (Not that anyone’s asking right now. Nobody’s asking _anything_ right now. But. You know. In the event of someone questioning him in the future.)  
   
“No point sitting around moaning about it,” is what his last human would’ve said. Which is a sentiment he could get behind, honestly, if it weren’t for the fact that that same human dropped him in the middle of the damn desert after their final wish was granted. Ankh isn’t very good with these human measurements of time, even less so when he’s trapped inside the void space of the medal, but it has to have been at least thirty years. Thirty years of just lying here in the sand, waiting for someone to come along and pick him up.  
   
Being alone with nothing but your own thoughts for that long… Well. It starts to take its toll. Not that he’s particularly fond of humans, but he’s starting to get a bit desperate to hear a voice that isn’t his own.  
   
Any moment now, he’s sure, someone will pass by and discover him.  
   
Any day now.  
   
  
   
  
   
When it finally does happen, it takes him by surprise. One second he’s drifting off to sleep, dreaming yet again of exactly how he’ll get his revenge on that shitty cat (and the other three, too, just because he hates them), and the next second he can feel himself being picked up, jolted from his resting place and cradled in a warm human hand.  
   
Their thumb brushes the sand from its surface, and the medal’s interior seems to tremble, as if its nonexistent walls were coming down around him. The haze that’s been hanging over his mind all these years begins to lessen, as if it too has been casually brushed away.  
   
“Fucking finally,” he mutters, trying not to sound as relieved as he actually is, and reaches up towards that tiny pinprick of light.  
   
The sun blinds him for a solid minute. It seems so much brighter than he remembers it being, its light warm against his feathers as he unfurls his wings, those muscles that he hasn’t used in so long screaming in protest. But it feels good, too. His memories of flying have been torturous these past however-many years, but now he’s free again and he can feel the wind at his back urging him upwards –  
   
There is a small, startled sound from behind him.  
   
Ah. Right. The human.  
   
He turns to look at them, and at the sight of his face their wide, dark eyes widen even further. A fairly unassuming-looking human, he thinks. A soft face, hair that’s sticking up in every direction, and nothing in hand but a stick with a small bundle tied to the end. Their clothes, though… Is that what the humans are wearing these days? Ankh grimaces. Bright purple and red are two colours that should never be paired together.  
   
“Um, I’m sorry,” they say. “I don’t mean to be rude, but… what are you?”  
   
Ankh knows that language, thankfully. Why humans need a hundred different tongues just to say the same inane things is something that’s always baffled him. No wonder they all lead such petty, pointless lives – most of them can’t even understand each other.  
   
“I’m a Greeed, obviously,” he says, folding his arms across his chest and tapping a finger against his forearm impatiently. “Now hurry up and make a wish, will you?”  
   
The human blinks. “A – a wish?”  
   
“Yeah. You get three. What’s the first?”  
   
Their brow furrows. “Three wishes? So you’re… like a genie, then?”  
   
“Tch.” There’s that fucking word again. “I just said I’m a Greeed, alright? Are you gonna make a wish or not?”  
   
The human doesn’t answer. They’re staring at him thoughtfully, their initial surprise having faded a lot quicker than he’s used to – usually humans stay shellshocked for at least a few minutes – and he fluffs his wings up a bit more in an effort to look intimidating.  
   
“You’ve been trapped in there for a while,” they say finally, quiet and matter-of-fact. “Haven’t you? Don’t you want to fly?”  
   
He does. He wants it so badly – wants to look down and see everything laid out in miniature beneath him, wants to taste the air like it only tastes from a hundred feet above the earth.  
   
“How about you come back later?” the human suggests, their smile vague. “Once you’ve flown. You can find me again, right?”  
   
Ankh can’t help but shake the feeling that he’s being managed, _ordered_ , and though it annoys him it’s not like he can deny his own desires. Not after thirty years of emptiness.  
   
“…Fine,” he mutters, and flaps his wings, taking off into the empty sky.  
   
  
   
  
   
It’s dark when he returns to the human, circling lazily above the flickering light of their campfire before gliding down to land next to them, talons sinking into the soft sand. As much as he hates to admit it, it’s a relief being close to them again. The farther he strays from his human’s side, the more urgent and painful the pressure in the back of his mind becomes, his other senses fading to grey until there is only that.  
   
(It was worth it to fly, though. It always is.)  
   
“Well?” he says. “Do you have a wish yet or what?”  
   
The human ‘hmm’s faintly as they add more kindling to the fire. “Sorry, but… I’m still not really sure. What do other people typically wish for?”  
   
“You know,” Ankh says, making a vague gesture. “Money. Fame. Love. Pointless human things like that. There was one who wished to be the king of his country.”  
   
“King?” they echo. “Oh, wow, no. I wouldn’t want something like that.” They turn to look at him, then, the soft yellow-orange light casting long shadows across their face. “This is kind of a big decision, isn’t it? Since I only get three and all. You… wouldn’t mind waiting a little longer, would you?”  
   
Ankh hisses in annoyance.  
   
“Sorry, are you in some kind of hurry?”  
   
“Well _obviously_ ,” he growls. “I want to get out of that shitty medal as soon as possible.”  
   
“You mean – ” The human rummages around through their pockets and holds the medal in question up to the firelight. “So you’re… bound to this? Until what?”  
   
“Until I grant the wishes of three hundred humans,” he says, reciting it like a mantra.  
   
“Three hundred?” They hum softly, thoughtful and quietly intrigued. “That seems like a lot. How many have you granted wishes for so far?”  
   
For a time, Ankh says nothing. The human turns to look at him expectantly.  
   
“…Nine,” he says finally, jaw clenched tight around the word.  
   
He can see their mouth twist as they try to stifle a laugh. “Right,” they say. “Well I guess that’s a start.”  
   
They lean back, then, staring up at the night sky and lifting a hand, seeming to trace a pattern from one star to the next.  
   
“If you think about it,” they say, “it’s probably better if I take a little while to decide. If I made all my wishes right here and now, who’s to say you wouldn’t just get dropped in the desert again? We’re still a day away from the nearest village, after all.”  
   
“That’s…” Ankh trails off, unable to deny the logic there, and settles on a faint “hmph” noise in lieu of an argument. He sinks down slowly into the sand, directly across the campfire from the human, and marvels for a moment at the colour of it – the vivid yellow core of the flames bleeding out into shades of orange. Thirty years spent in darkness and even something as simple as _colour_ seems like a miracle to him. It’s pathetic.  
   
(He thinks about going back into the medal again, so soon after being freed, and feels something like a shiver work its way through him.)  
   
“Hey, what’s your name?” the human asks, and he glances up at them across the fire, somewhat taken aback. He hasn’t had one outright ask his name in a while. The last one had just called him “genie” despite his continued protests otherwise.  
   
“It’s Ankh,” he says.  
   
“Ankh, huh?” they echo, as if they were testing it out, judging the way it feels on their lips. “I’m Eiji. Nice to meet you.”  
   
They say nothing else to him that night, other than a “good night” before they drift off to sleep. He has no real need for it himself, of course, and so simply watches the rise and fall of Eiji’s chest as the campfire between them dies off into embers.  
   
He has a feeling that he may have gotten himself an odd human this time around.


End file.
